Sounds of Iron
by lealila
Summary: His second day back from Narnia, Edmund dreams of what could have been. Slight AU


**_some allusions toward the song "irong" by woodkid_**

_Sounds of Iron_

_his second day back from narnia, edmund dreams of what could have been_

_Edmund startles awake. He gropes for his sword, but remembers, then, that he's no longer in Narnia. A bitter thought, but Edmund remembers how he dealt with it the first time. Except this time, it is not England and his mum he's longing for. _

_**xxx**_

The sounds of war are drumming, and Edmund waits for the signal to charge. Scratches his neck. The tattoos are irritating his skin, but it's worth it. The Queen—who has graciously asked Edmund to call her Jadis (though he will slip)—talks about great warriors of her old world with tattoo symbols all over their bodies. Symbols that gave them a status, courage, i_greatness_/i_, _and the more they had the better. But Edmund is new to this tradition, so only four are now covering his skin. He grips the mace tighter, glancing at the wings on his chest: _Free-will_. Glances at Peter before any thoughts form.

Peter holds the messenger owl, waiting. Edmund's brother is not going to war—he's not a soldier. The training in the castle, and the not-battle near Aslan's camp proved that. But Edmund is gracious, and gladly took in Peter as an assistant. No tattoos cover _his_ body.

"Awaiting your orders, Sir."

There's a quiet stirring, making Edmund look up. _Dark clouds, dark rain, dark days. _An old proverb Mu—_Helen_ told him.

Peter's owl flaps his wings. Edmund's horse is restless, and he has a bit of hand trying to keep the dumb animal reigned in.

"Tell the Queen we're ready." A whole regiment waits behind the Prince.

"Try not to kill our sisters."

Edmund races with the owl.

_**xxx**_

_"Did it mark you?" _

_The Professor looks down with quiet humor. "Not as much as you, it seems."_

_Edmund doesn't answer the unspoken answer. Merely says, "How did it mark you?"_

"_I still dream about it."_

_**xxx**_

Lucy looks at him with a fury. "_I trusted you_," she snarls with a dagger in her fist. But Edmund's foot is on her wrist, preventing Lucy from striking back. Susan is off fighting somewhere else. Let her. It is Lucy he wants.

Edmund ignores her words. Leans slightly closer, foot still on her wrist, and sword hovering at her neck. "I'm going to give you a choice, so listen closely. You can go back to England, or you can stay with me. Join me, and rule Narnia alongside me."

Lucy averts her eyes. "Why are you giving me this choice?"

"Sister, you always were my favorite. And after all, Narnia is yours. It's always been yours."

"Just like it is the White Witch's?"

A blink. "Just like it's _mine._"

_**xxx**_

_"Tell me about it. What your time was like." A pause. "Well. If you want to tell me, that is."_

_Edmund gives the Professor a hard look. "Only if you tell me."_

_Kirke laughs. "I like your thinking."_

_**xxx**_

"The White Witch is dead! Long live the King! Long live the King!"

Edmund stands on the balcony, facing the crowd. They're all Narnians. But they are not real Narnians.

(They'll never be, he privately thinks. They'll never be real Narnians.)

_**xxx**_

_Edmund tells him everything. The White Witch, the battle, Cair Paravel, and Mr. Tumnus and the Beavers. Aslan, too. The great lion, and his bravery and aura of power, and all the little nuances._

_The only things he leaves out is the conversation between himself and Aslan and the lamppost. The conversation is his, and the lamppost belongs to Lucy. _

_Susan and Peter have their marks, too. But they've never said what, and to Edmund, it's not obvious as to what is theirs. _

_Kirke gets an odd look on him, and says, "Maybe it's the place itself."_

_(But no, he silently protests. That much _is_ obvious. Narnia belongs to Aslan. Edmund starts to wonder, then, if it's what Narnia _gave_ them that have made its mark to his older brother and sister.)_

_**xxx**_

There's one-time—only one—where he yearns for could have been. _(edmund regrets _what has been_ plenty of times. but regret is something completely different and a story for another time.)_

Edmund years for Lucy's jokes and Peter's firm hand and Susan's gentle smile. It's very late at night; everyone is asleep. King Edmund the Just quietly dresses in riding clothes, grasping his sword, creeping to the stable. His horse he rode into battle those three years ago has died. Now he rides a talking horse who calls himself Philip. Philip is the only Narnian, Edmund likes to believe, who understands.

The stable is quiet. All the animals are sleeping, so Edmund takes care of not waking them. When he reaches Philip's stall, the horse gazes at him with clear eyes. Philip is ready for riding—his gear is on and everything. Suddenly, there is a tap on his shoulder. Whirling, he finds the person—the girl—Lucy—cringing.

"I thought I'd ride with you." She sounds lugubrious. Like she always sounds like.

Her horse stands waiting in the large stable doors. Edmund leads Philip out. Mounts and abeyances.

"You best keep up then."

Edmund races out, and Lucy is not too far behind. Long minutes pass before they simultaneously slow the horses to a walk. They talk, but not like they used to. There are no jokes no teasing. Neither of them even knows how to talk that anyways. It's been too long. Even before this whole Narnian mess started.

"Peter and Susan can't understand. How I can forgive you, that is."

The trees are quiet, and for Edmund, it's too surreal. Lucy likewise looks uneasy. "How can you forgive? I don't even forgive myself."

Lucy abeyances at a metal pole in a sudden clearing, after moments of silence.

"You're Edmund the Just. You're only doing what you think is right."

_**xxx**_

_Fingers brush shadows on his neck. Old tattoos that were never really there. "Do you dream about it?"_

_Kirke shifts slightly, majority of his weight going from one foot to the other. "Sometimes." _

"_Good dreams?"_

"_It's what my time has there has been like. So yes, generally speaking, the dreams are good."_

_The professor is hiding something, Edmund sees. But he won't push—dreams are private matters, and Edmund respects that._

_**xxx**_

Edmund's brother and sisters stand around him. Lucy looks positively miserable, with that dagger of hers in her hand. Susan's bow and arrows are cocked and ready, aiming at his heart. Peter simply keeps his sword in its sheath, right hand lightly resting on the hilt. Edmund holds his hands in surrender. The tattoo leaves glare at him.

"You don't want to do this." The words are for Lucy. Susan gets some too, at her uneasy look.

Peter, in the middle, steps forward. "We're not going to kill you." _(a lie. they are going to kill; they're just going to swing the sword.)_ "We just want to take you back to England. You've ruled long enough here, and all the Narnians agree. There's been a vote, Edmund. You stand accused of treason."

Seven years on the throne, and now they accuse him? Edmund won't argue. He is out-numbered, and pleading and slaughtering won't get him anywhere.

Peter continues. "And as a result of your treason, you are here-now banished from Narnia, and all of Her colonies. We are to escort you to the lamppost, and beyond that, the wardrobe."

He nods. Oddly, he feels quite out-of-it, as if looking through different eyes. Observing the situation, not living it.

The ride to the lamppost doesn't take long—only thirty minutes. Edmund, on request, rides Philip. There's no talking, and once again, the trees are quiet, and there is a sense of surrealism. Many creatures stand around the pole, all of them carrying weapons. Edmund dismounts from Philip, wondering _who will swingthesword_—

_**xxx**_

_Edmund, when in Narnia, went to the lamppost for comfort. But with that gone, and him yearning for Narnia and not home, the wardrobe will do. He can't go back. Lucy told him how she had tried, but the Professor had said it doesn't come when you're looking. Edmund believes him, but that doesn't stop him from opening the wooden doors, and peering in. He backs away after some moments, leaving the doors open, feeling almost disappointed. Though of what, he's not quite sure. Kirke has gone off to bed some time ago, and Edmund should go too. But he can't: the nightmare is still new in his head, and he's afraid that next time, it will not be a dream._

_There's a sudden pitter-patter of noise, and Edmund whirls to find the person—the girl—Lucy—stand proud. _

"_I told you it's not going to work."_

"_I had a nightmare."_

_She creeps closer, wrapping her arms around him, and turns him to the wardrobe. "Cast them away. Close the door, and cast them away."_

_Disentangling himself from her, he closes his eyes. For such a young child, she's awfully wise. But then, Lucy has already grown up. They all have._

_His fingers latch onto the door, and he doesn't open his eyes. He pretends to throw each dream-memory into the wardrobe. After hearing the door click close, he opens his eyes. Lucy has not moved, and she stares at him proudly. _

"_Just like that."_

(and in a way, she's right. it works. edmund dreams still, the white witch with her outstretched hand. but edmund simply casts the witch away, and all his fears and doubts along with her.)


End file.
